One Hot Fall Term (Yardley College Chronicles Book1) (17 page)

Scream, damn it. I used to fall into silence when my stepfather came to me. Maybe if I’d screamed the first time he came into my bedroom, none of the other stuff would have happened.

Scream now!

I start yelling and shrieking at the top of my lungs as I try to crawl away and stumble to my feet at the same time. I think I yell, “Help! Please help me!” Then I remember hearing that you should yell, ‘Fire’, because otherwise no one will come to help you. No one will get invol—

A fist slams into my face from the side. The pain blinds me. God, is my jaw broken? Sheer agony shoots through my body, making my limbs feel numb

But I throw my body forward, scramble so I’m standing.

Only to be grabbed by a strong arm. It wraps around me like a python, gripping me so hard I feel my chest being crushed. A hand slams into my mouth so I can’t yell anymore. His palm mashes my lips against my teeth; his fingers gouge into my face. He’s wearing black leather gloves, and I pull my tongue back so I don’t have to taste the leather shoved into my mouth.

  He’s big and strong—way more so than I expected. I thought I might have a chance to fight, but I’m squirming and struggling and I can’t break free.

He turns to the side to move, so he’s pulling and dragging me. I try to make myself heavy, then try to grab at the branches of the bushes and hold on tight. There’s a small path broken through the bushes and he hauls me along it.

Then we’re on the other side of the bushes, in rain-soaked darkness. Far away from the road. Where no one can see or hear me.

Chapter Nine

Behind the bushes, the ground slopes down to a ravine. I hadn’t thought much about it before—it was a pretty spot on campus where a lot of students sat on sunny days to read and eat. It’s deserted now, on a dark rainy night. The perfect place for me to die…

The guy’s arm is clamped around me, his hand gripping my breast hard. Tears leak from my eyes at the pain of it. Behind me, his body is like a wall. Even in the rain, I can smell him—smell the acrid stink of his sweat.

Against my will, he’s dragging me along and I can’t stop him. The grass is too slick for me to dig in my heels, and I’m small and light compared to him. I still haven’t seen him. He’s just a bulky mass behind me, a strong black-clad arm around me, a hand ruthlessly pressed over my mouth.

Suddenly I realize the slope of the ground could save my life. While trying to keep me restrained, my attacker has to slow down and pick his way carefully so he doesn’t fall.

Use your brain. Use your brain.

First I remember I still have my phone in my hand. I’m scared I’ll drop it and I manage to shove it into my pocket.

Instead of trying to pull away from him or push back against his body, I work with our momentum. I throw all my weight forward.

It works. He loses his balance and in the shock of it, he releases my mouth. I scream as loud as I can, knowing this may be my only chance. But I’m slipping on the grass too. I give into my motion and pull hard away from him. I break free of his arm and start running down the ravine. Stupid, I know, but it’s the only hope I might have of getting away.

It doesn’t work. He races down after me, grabs me, loses his balance, and we both fall. We roll over the mowed, lumpy grass.

I fall in the bottom of the ravine, my face landing in water. Blind panic hits me and I fight to push up so I can breathe. Big hands grip me and throw me to the side, where I land on my back, squishing into the grass of the slope.

I’m going to see him at least—

I shriek.

A monster’s face looms over me. The skin is dark grey and shiny, slick with rain that’s dripping off the weirdly rounded cheeks and flat nose. The eyes are slits and the mouth is a grille. I scream in sheer terror.

It’s a mask. God, it’s a Halloween mask.

He presses his body on top of me and his weight keeps me pinned to the ground. The smell is gross and I’m going to be sick, and I can barely breathe. Rain splatters my face, making it hard to open my eyes. His hands slide between us and I feel his hand tugging at the fastening of my jeans.

I kick at his legs, hammering his calves with my boots as best as I can. I try punching at his arms but my blows feel useless.

“Fuck,” he growls through the grill of the mask.

The voice? Do I know it? It sounds kind of familiar…but with one word, I can’t tell—

I hear a sound. A soft
snick
. Something cold presses to my throat.

“I’ve got a knife. Lie still. Do what I say. You won’t get hurt.”

His voice sounded really raspy and deep. I think he’s disguising it.

With one hand holding the knife, and his body lying on me, he’s struggling with my jeans. It’s hard to do with one hand. He stops. “Take them off.”

I don’t move. God, I’m not going to
help
him.

“Take them off or I’ll cut up your pretty face.”

God. God. God. Nausea crawls up my throat. My brain feels like things are exploding in it and fear writhes like a snake trapped in my veins.

I’m going to be raped. I’m going to be forced into doing something awful. Something vile and disgusting and sick. Nothing that happened to me in the past is like this. I’ve been mentally manipulated, I’ve been weak and stupid, but I’ve never been physically hurt and forced.

No. No, I won’t let this happen.

Give in, let him do it, maybe he’ll let you live,
screams a voice in my head.

I can’t. How in hell could I live with that? That’s what I did years ago—I let him do to me what he wanted. I did it so he wouldn’t leave mom and me, so we wouldn’t end up thrown out of the house with nothing. I didn’t run away because I was afraid I’d end up in something worse—becoming a prostitute, having sex with strange guys, maybe getting killed.

There was always the fear of something worse.

That terror kept me obedient.

My old way of dealing with stark fear is trying to take control of me. Maybe if I play nice, my brain says, he’ll get what he wants and move on. And he won’t hurt me.

Or maybe he will. Maybe the whole point to this for him is his sick fun when he kills me in the end.

Go along with what he wants. Buy time. It’s your only chance.

No, I shout to the voice that’s telling me to be obedient. I can’t do it. I can’t treat my body like it’s nothing. I can’t treat me like I’m nothing.

“No,” I scream and I struggle helplessly underneath him.

The knife slices along my jaw, along the bone. I feel coldness, then a stinging sensation. Then pain. I’m bleeding, I think, or maybe I’m just feeling the rain on my neck. If only I could get my knee up and I could slam him in the nuts with it.

The knife presses to my neck. I don’t want my face carved up or my throat cut. But I won’t let him inside me. I’d rather be dead.

“Fuck you, asshole,” snarls a male voice from somewhere in the dark and I see a black shape swing over my head. It connects with the temple of my attacker and there’s a hellish
crack
and the guy flies off me. As he falls, he’s still gripping the knife, and it cuts my cheek as it slides across my face.

The weight is off me and I try to scramble to the side, but I find he’s still on top of my leg and I can’t get free.

The attacker lunges over me at the legs that are beside me—the legs of my rescuer. My rescuer loses his balance and falls. But he jumps up and I can barely see him, but I realize he’s punching my attacker.

He has black hair, a leather coat, and he’s tall.

Jonathon…He came for me. He found me. Sobs rise in my throat, then I take control of my wits and shriek, “Jonathon, watch out! He has a knife.”

The knife slices at Jonathon. But to my shock, Jonathon grabs the bastard’s wrist with speed and calm. He makes an abrupt jerking motion and the knife falls from the guy’s hand. The guy is taller than Jonathon. Much larger.

I don’t want to stand like an idiot. Is there a weapon around?

My phone. I haul it out of my pocket as the attacker runs at Jonathon. They’re wrestling, locked together, each trying to get in punches.

I slam in 911 to my cell phone with my index finger. In movies, the guy would get Jonathon into a choke hold and break his neck.

“911. What is your emergency?”

I’m trying to be coherent for the 911 dispatcher. “I was attacked. My friend rescued me but know he’s fighting with my attacker. There was a knife. Please send someone. Now. It has to be now. I don’t know what he’ll do. Maybe he has more knives—”

“Stay call, ma’am. Where are you located?”

I’m babbling with fear. “On campus. Yardley. Near the Biology building.  Baxter building. Main campus drive. There’s a ravine behind it. We’re in there.”

The sicko with the mask has his arm wrapped tight around Jonathon’s neck. Where’s the knife? Desperate, I search the ground for it. I’ll drive it into the guy’s arm. Into his neck.

Jonathon reaches behind him, shifts his body with fluid grace and the guy goes flying over his shoulder and slams into the wet ground. Jonathon gets him in a hold, pinned against the grass.

He knows martial arts. Like Ryan.

Then I see the knife. God, it is right near the guy’s outstretched hand. I bite back a scream of panic and try to get there, sliding over the grass. But he sees it, grabs it, and I shout a warning to Jonathon.

Jonathon jerks back as the knife drives at his thigh. The guy misses, but he manages to jerk out from under Jonathon, who skids in the wet grass and falls back. The guy runs toward the bottom of the ravine, then races along it, jumping rocks and splashing through water, toward the back of the biology building.

“Damn it,” Jonathon snarls. He’s on his feet and I stumble to him. “Stay here,” he says to me.

He’s going to run after the guy.

“No.” I grab his arm. “I called 911. The cops are coming. You can’t chase him—he’s got a knife and you could be killed.”

Jonathon pries my hand off his arm and he runs in pursuit. Sirens cut through the air. Lights flash, dizzying against the streaming rain. I point wildly, screaming to the cops and campus security that my rapist ran away and my rescuer is chasing him.

A cop stays with me, trying to lead me back to his car so he can do something about the cuts on my face and neck, but I try to stand my ground. As if by standing there, I am somehow able to protect Jonathon.

Seconds later I hear a crackle on the guy’s microphone, which is clipped to his bullet-proof vest. He clicks it on, gives his name.

“Man down,” says the crackled voice. “We’ve got an unconscious male, about six foot tall, black jacket, black hair—”

“That’s Jonathon,” I cry. “My friend. He rescued me. You want to get the guy wearing the mask. He’s the rapist.” Then, my brain understands what happened. “Is he okay? Is Jonathon okay? The guy had a knife and he could have been stabbed.”

I want to vomit as the officer relays everything I said to the other cop.

More crackling. Then, “He’s conscious. Appears to have sustained no injuries. No sign of the other one.”

“Can I go and see Jonathon? Please take me to him. He saved my life.”

The cop is young, looks about the same age as Jonathon, with short brown hair and a baby-face. He points. “I think he’s coming now, miss.”

Next thing I know Jonathon is sweeping me into his arms and holding me tight.

***

We end up at the small community hospital. Jonathon was knocked unconscious when the assailant went at him with a knife and he lost his footing. The bastard had grabbed him and slammed him head first into a tree. The campus is laid out with the town to the south of it, and wooded land to the north. The ravine meanders through campus almost in the middle of it, but it becomes the border of the college grounds behind the science buildings.

The masked sicko ran into the woods and completely disappeared.

The police brought me to the hospital to deal with the two cuts on my face, and bring Jonathon to the hospital so he could be checked for concussion. I’m dealt with quickly. I get my face and neck swabbed with disinfectant that stings, get asked about tetanus shots. Neither cut needs stiches but they use a surgical tape to hold the one on my jaw together to limit scarring. The other one is just a scratch, thank God.

Then the cops get my story of what happened.

I tell them all about the emails, the photo slipped under the door, and the attack. And how, even after all this, I had no idea who this guy was.

Or why he’d decided on me as his victim.

I couldn’t even guess who he might be. I didn’t even know anyone as big as he was at Yardley. I couldn’t think of anyone in my classes.

I wanted them to hurry up and finish asking questions so I could go in to see Jonathon in the hospital’s examining room. Every detail I can think of, I give to the cop questioning me. I insist I don’t need to do a rape kit thing, because Jonathon saved me before that happened to me.

I owe him my life. Even if the guy hadn’t killed me, I don’t know if I could have mentally survived being raped. I know how hellish it was to do stuff when I didn’t want to. What about when you’re forced to do it with a violent creep?  Women who survive that are amazingly strong.

Finally, I get to go and see Jonathon.

He sits on the edge of an examining bed, gripping the sides.  The doctor looks up at the cops who’ve walked in with me. “No evidence of a concussion. I’m going to stitch up his wound. I’ve removed some of his hair in the area and cleaned it. Now I’ll close it up.” A nurse has gathered scalpels, needles, and sutures and has laid it all on a tray beside the doctor.

Jonathon keeps his jaw set as the doctor worked on stitching the wound. My stomach felt queasy but I stood at his side. He reached out and clasped my hand. Smiles at me.

He really is a gorgeous guy.

“Thank you,” I whisper to him. “If you hadn’t found me—”